The Holes in the Heart of the Change in the Game
by GentleReader
Summary: Follows B&B through the last two episodes of S6.  What actually happened that night in Booth's bed?  What will Angela say about it?  And how the heck did Brennan end up...well, you know... *SPOILERS* *Ch. 6 up!*
1. In the Wee Small Hours

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Bones_ or these characters...just borrowing them for a bit.

**Author's Note:** Originally, "In the Wee Small Hours" was supposed to be a missing-scene one-shot. However, the finale left us with a lot more questions than it answered, and I couldn't resist trying to fill in the blanks myself. Right now, I'm planning to take this through the end of the finale…but you never know…

Reviews are very much appreciated, as this is my first Bones fic!

**The Holes in the Heart of the Change in the Game**

**Chapter One: In The Wee Small Hours**

_In the wee small hours of the morning  
><em>_While the whole wide world is fast asleep  
><em>_You lie awake and think about the boy  
><em>_And never ever think of counting sheep…_

All cried out.

She had heard that expression before, but never understood it; if sufficiently hydrated, the human body could continue to produce tears indefinitely. Perhaps this was what it meant—the exhaustion she felt after sobbing in Booth's arms for the last half hour. She sat up slightly. "You might want to change."

"What?" He looked up at her, confused.

"Your shirt—it's all wet. That can't be comfortable."

Feeling less than at ease herself, she hoped Booth _would_ get up, pace around a little, root through his haphazard clothing-storage system for a dry shirt. And give her an excuse to escape back to the couch.

Because, really, what was she doing here—in his bed? What had she been hoping to find, when she came through the door?

_Comfort_, she told herself. That was all. She was just looking for someone to share the burden of Vincent's death, to reassure her that she wasn't responsible for the terrifying loneliness of the last moments of his life.

Booth slid a corner of the pillowcase over the damp blotch on his sleeve, and settled her more firmly against his side. She had to admit it felt...good...to lay there, surrounded by his warmth, the hard line of his biceps secure against her back. Safer...from Broadsky, anyway.

And yet far more vulnerable than she'd been on the couch. Logically, she knew that the heightened emotions associated with trauma caused people to take risks, to be more open than they might be otherwise. The whole "what-if-the-world-ends-tomorrow" argument. Carpe diem.

If the world—their world—_did_ end tomorrow, what would she want to tell Booth?

She didn't know.

They were quiet for a long while. Brennan listened intently, waiting for his breathing to assume the heavy regularity of sleep.

"Are you scared?" she asked, finally.

"For myself? No...but, Jesus, Bones, he took out Vincent in the middle of the lab. He knows who I work with, who I'm close to. So for Cam, Hodgins, Angela, even Sweets—yeah, I'm scared. I can't be with all of them all the time. That's why I've got to finish him—tomorrow, if I can."

The silence stretched again. Then—"Me," she said.

"You what?"

"You didn't mention me—on the list of people you're close to."

"Nope."

"But—_why_?" she spluttered, pushing herself up. Her elbow accidentally dug into his spleen.

"Oof!" he groaned, removing the offending appendage and propping himself on one arm. His eyes glinted in the grey predawn. "One: in the morning, you're going straight from here to the safe room at the Jeffersonian. And you're not leaving until I've got him."

She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped abruptly as his finger traced her cheek. "And two," he continued, his voice low and soft, "You're my strength, Bones. With you beside me, I don't have to be scared."

Tears pooled in her eyes again—not, apparently, cried out after all. Booth leaned forward and kissed her, gently, lips barely touching hers.

Courage, fear, love, anger, the finality of death and the hope of a new beginning all collided in her thoughts. In an unprecedented move, her mind stubbornly refused to work, to analyze, categorize, explain.

"What does all this mean?" she asked helplessly.

Booth's answer was to kiss her again, mouth claiming hers until she stopped thinking altogether, falling back on the bed and pulling him with her.

Finally, they broke apart. Her heart still hammered an accelerated rhythm and she could see Booth's chest heaving against the thin t-shirt. His face wore an expression she couldn't decipher—desire was there, certainly, but there was something like regret, too.

"When it's over with Broadsky," he panted, "I'm gonna show you _exactly_ what all this means."

Collapsing onto his pillow, he drew her back into the hollow of his shoulder. One hand stroked her hair, silently soothing. "Until then...get some sleep, Bones."

And to her surprise, she did.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Thanks go to Carly Simon for the song lyrics, and to diane for superior beta services.**


	2. The Morning After

**Chapter Two: The Morning After**

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The alarm's insistent blare shattered the peaceful silence of Booth's bedroom.

"Hey, Bones…shut that thing off, would you?" he muttered. "Broadsky can live another 15 minutes."

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

"Bones?"

She wasn't there.

He grabbed his gun from the nightstand and bolted through the bedroom door, fighting off visions of Brennan splayed on the floor, a small red circle in the middle of her forehead.

"BONES!"

Leveling the gun, he crept carefully around the living room. Dust motes danced in the hazy strips of light that came through the blinds, but all was quiet. He tensed, half-expecting Broadsky to saunter out from the shadows, rifle cocked.

Nothing.

No Broadsky—thank God.

But no Brennan either—no sign, even, that she'd been there. Sheets, blanket, and pillow were stacked on one end of the couch; her shoes and purse were gone.

Had he dreamed it? Holding her as she cried, kissing her, wanting her so, so badly…but not willing to take that step when they were both cloudy with grief and stress…

He picked up the grey sweatshirt, folded neatly atop the bedding on the couch. It smelled like her—clean and fresh, like green grass after it rained, with a slight undercurrent of disinfectant from the lab.

Not a dream, then.

His confusion swiftly gave way to outrage. She'd just walked out of here, fancy free, with no thought of the danger she could be in? After what happened to Vincent? After what they'd talked about last night?

And she hadn't even said goodbye?

Snatching up his phone, he dialed the number with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Dr. Brennan."

"Where the hell _are_ you?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I'm at the Jeffersonian, of course, in a safe place—don't worry. Cam has the whole lab on lockdown."

"That's not the point, Bones."

She sounded a little annoyed. "Actually, after yesterday, I thought that my safety, and the safety of the whole staff, is _exactly_ the point. Are…are you angry, Booth?"

"No." _I'm furious_.

Even Brennan could hear the disconnect between his words and his tone; her silence radiated defensiveness. Booth punched the doorjamb in frustration, but tried to speak calmly. "We were supposed to go down there _together_."

"You were asleep," she said simply. "I didn't want to wake you…I didn't take any risks, Booth—didn't even stop for coffee—just went down, got in my car, and drove straight here."

"And Broadsky could've been trailing you the whole way!" he exploded. "He could've been right outside! Damnit, Bones!"

"You _are_ angry."

"How can I keep you safe if you won't listen to me?" He took a deep breath and forced his voice back to a register approaching normal. "Look—you're there now, you're fine, I guess that's what counts. But you've got to promise me _not_ to go anywhere."

Surprisingly, she acquiesced. "Yes, I understand. Where will you be?"

"I'm going down to headquarters to see if Agent Shaw has turned anything up. I'll check in with you later."

"All right."

He had nearly pressed the "End" button when he heard her again. "Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"Be safe, OK?" There was something in her voice that cut through his anger, a timbre, low and intimate, that he'd never heard before.

And despite what he had to do that day, Agent Booth left with a spring in his step.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	3. Confessions

**A/N**: I know there are a lot of these "missing moments" stories out there, and I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate you taking the time to review, favorite, and put this on alert. Your feedback is enormously helpful!

Also, I realize that many of the MM fics assume that Booth and Brennan made love on the night of Vincent's death. Given what they showed us in the last two episodes, that's certainly a possibility. However, I don't think B&B—and Booth in particular—would have wanted to take that step when both of them were in such a precarious emotional state. So, at least in this fic, the big event is still to come! :)

**Chapter Three: Confessions**

"Honey—no! Not right now. I'm sorry—I love you—but...go tell Cam. Go! Away! AWAY!"

Brennan knew that it was common for women in the advanced stages of pregnancy to become more assertive; it was equally common for their mates to adopt a more placating stance than they otherwise would, under the misapprehension that emotional stress could bring on labor.

Nonetheless, she was surprised at Hodgins' quick retreat from the bone room.

Surprised...and a little chagrined. Angela had clearly sent him away on the assumption that she was going to hear something revelatory. But what, exactly, did Brennan have to tell her?

"Bren!" Ange called sharply.

"Yes?"

Angela made a noise that, most likely, signified frustration. She walked around the examining table, gripping Brennan by the arm.

"What. Happened? Did you two—"

"No, Ange. We didn't have intercourse." Perhaps a _mea culpa_ was in order, for raising her friend's expectations. "I'm sorry."

Angela shook her head; clearly she was not following the thread of the conversation. "Sorry? Sorry for what?" Her eyes widened. "Oh! You mean—you _regret_ it—you wish you'd jumped his bones!" Clapping a hand over her grinning mouth, she looked down ruefully at Leishenger's deconstructed skeleton.

Brennan placed his skull back on the table and rubbed her forearm over her eyes, wondering why she had given in to the spontaneous urge to discuss last night. "No! That's not what I—" She cut herself off. _Did_ she regret it? _Did_ she wish they'd crossed that line? No...well, perhaps, a little. Probably not.

Suddenly aware that Angela's foot was tapping impatiently, she continued. "I meant, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I know you have been hoping for Booth and I to...extend our relationship into a sexual realm—"

"Not just that, but, OK, yeah...we all have." She waved her hand vaguely, encompassing the whole lab. "But why would you think I'd be _disappointed _in you? Unless—wait—you didn't turn him _down_, did you?" Her voice was unmistakably accusing.

"I...I wasn't the one who stopped it, no," Brennan admitted.

_Now_ Angela looked disappointed—devastated, in fact. "Oh, sweetie...did he turn _you_ down?"

Brennan thought of that moment when she and Booth had looked at each other, hearts racing. There hadn't been a lack of desire, in either of them. What was _behind_ that desire (what it "meant," as Sweets might say) was open to question.

"It wasn't like that, Ange. We just—stopped...mutually. I think."

"So what happens next?" pressed Angela.

"Next?"

"Yeah, _next_—now that you've been in his _bed_, Bren. Don't tell me you don't want to go back there!"

The heat rose in Brennan's cheeks and she nearly—but not quite—giggled. _Get a hold of yourself, Dr. Brennan_. _You've _never_ acted like a lovesick schoolgirl, and now is _not_ the time to start._ Standing up straight, she declared, "Booth and I have decided to put any physical relationship on hold until after the Broadsky situation is dealt with."

Angela nodded solemnly, but her eyes twinkled. "OK, so we get Broadsky...and then you and Booth get naked!"

"Angela!" Brennan looked behind them, lest someone might have heard, but the corridor was thankfully empty. "We need to get Broadsky for Vincent's sake, not just so Booth and I can—"

"Of course, of course, Bren. We need to do this—for Vincent. Absolutely. Wait—Jack! He had something to tell us—something that might help!" She bolted from the room as fast as her distended torso would allow, calling, "Jack! Honey! HODGINS!"

Brennan found herself hoping Angela tracked him down—soon.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. Timing

**Chapter Four: Timing**

Sitting in the SUV, Booth took a deep breath, and let it out again. He wasn't looking forward to this.

Though he _was_ looking forward to seeing Bones. Very much.

He hadn't seen her since that night at his apartment. He'd gone straight to the docks yesterday, after Hodgins called him; the whole time he was stalking Broadsky, creeping between the shipping containers, straining to hear any unusual sound or smell any trace of sulfur in the air...he was praying.

_Please, God, let this go OK_.

He had never prayed, before, when he was on the hunt—it seemed sacrilegious, somehow. He'd believed in what he was doing then...but it still felt wrong, asking God to steady his hand or to guide his aim.

This time, however, was different. In the first place, he wasn't going to kill Broadsky unless it was necessary in the line of defense. But more than that...this time, there was Bones.

_We're just getting started...and I didn't get to say goodbye._

So all day yesterday, as he set his foot on the bullet hole in Broadsky's knee, and as he personally supervised his incarceration (not taking any chances there)...and all day today, as he gathered the evidence to give Caroline her best shot at getting this guy several life sentences (with parole when Hell freezes over, thank you very much), he felt grateful.

Actually, the day was a huge mixed bag of emotions: triumph, certainly; relief, too; sadness when he came across the files on Vincent and Tracy Lavek—_not_ just "collateral damage"—supplanted by a burst of residual fury at the man's supreme arrogance. And a kind of awe, almost, that he, Master Sergeant Seeley Booth, had dodged a bullet in more ways than one. He could so easily have followed his mentor into the darkness...could have allowed his zeal for justice to make him a zealot, and let his rectitude become self-righteousness.

_There but for the grace of God go I_, he thought. And sent his thanks heavenward, once again.

Underneath the fact-gathering, the exhibit-making, and the emotional ups and downs, however, there ran a thin but steady current of excitement. One that Booth strenuously ignored. Because if he thought about Bones, and the promise he'd made the other night, his face would break into a wildly inappropriate grin, Agent Shaw would be shocked, and he'd never finish the goddamn report.

Finally, it was done and couriered over to Caroline, and he was free to go.

Free to go and see Vincent's body off on its journey back to England. Not exactly the circumstances under which he would have chosen to get his first sight of Bones since she'd been in his bed.

Still, as he walked through the Jeff from the parking garage, he rehearsed what he might say to her, how he might suggest they make good on his promise. He had gotten as far as, "So..." when he stepped out onto the delivery dock, joining the grim quartet already gathered by the hearse.

She wasn't there.

He could _almost_ ascribe the plummeting of his heart to the appearance of Vincent's casket, wheeled through the doors a moment later. He was just thinking, _It was too much_—_she couldn't do it, _when Sweets opened his mouth and started spewing about retreats into hyperrationalism. He supposed it was illogical (as Bones might say) that he had to forcibly restrain himself from clocking the kid, when all he had done was voice, albeit in psychobabble, Booth's own thoughts.

But that would only complicate things. So he merely declared, "Bones said she'll come—she will definitely be here."

And, as though he had conjured her up...there she was. Complete with potted hydrangea.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked, her usual confident forthrightness nowhere in evidence. Blue eyes glimmered as she set the flowers down on the coffin, and he nearly swept her into his arms right there, discretion be damned. He settled for giving her a look in which, he hoped, she could read the message: _You're fine. You did good_.

Then there was some talking, and suddenly they were singing that inane song about the lime and the coconut—Booth was pretty sure _that_ was Sweets' idea. Whatever, it didn't matter; _his_ attention was focused solely on Bones, on getting her through this moment.

The doors closed, the hearse drove away, and Bones slipped her arm through his. They followed the group back through the building, and took the elevator down to the garage. All without speaking a word, though Bones' hand was still firmly tucked into the crook of his elbow.

"You OK?" he asked her, finally, as they stood by her car.

"Of course," she replied, giving him her I-can-handle-anything look. Then she sighed. "No."

"You will be, Bones." He clasped her hands, bringing them up to his chest. "Y'know, it takes a lot more strength to deal with what you're feeling than to walk away from it."

She smiled a little. "Now you sound like Dr. Sweets."

He dropped her hands as though he'd been burned. "Jeez, Bones! Way to kill the mood!"

"What mood? Do you mean the proper observance of the funeral ritual? Why would comparing you to Dr. Sweets—"

"Ack! Not _that_ mood...the mood I was trying to—" He ran a hand through his hair. "You know what? Never mind. My timing sucks. Just...come here." Pulling her into a hug, he dropped a kiss on her hair.

"I still don't understand," she said, voice muffled by his coat. "But I have to say...I feel a little better."

"That's good, Bones...that's good."

They would have their moment. It might not be tonight, but they _would_ have it.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	5. Passages

**A/N: **I hope you don't find this terribly out of character…but after all the angst, I thought we deserved a little fluff. Your feedback, as always, is much appreciated!

**Chapter Five: Passages**

"OK, I've given you two hours to work…now spill the dirt!" Angela lowered herself into the chair with a sigh.

Brennan looked up from the article that she was editing for _The International Journal of Osteoarchaeology_. "Ange, you know Hodgins doesn't like it when you say 'dirt'."

"Yeah, well, Hodgins isn't here!" the pregnant woman snapped. "Sorry, sweetie—not real dirt—ow! God, I feel like I'm gonna crack open…move your foot, you tiny alien!" She pressed two fingers into her rib cage.

"That's ridiculous. You've seen the ultrasound…you know you're carrying a human child."

Angela slapped her hand down on the desk. "Enough about dirt and alien babies, Bren! What the hell happened with you and Booth last night?"

Brennan recoiled, just a little. Intellectually, she understood the source of Angela's short temper, of course, but it was still startling to have it directed at her. She said carefully, "We went to the parking garage."

"Oh, my God—you couldn't wait, could you? You did it right there in the _car_?" Ange squealed.

"What? No, of course not! Achieving sexual congress in a car, while possible, is physiologically challenging…not to mention unhygienic."

"No…right." A pink flush climbed up Angela's cheeks. "Anyway…then what?"

"Well…I don't really know. Booth said I should face my feelings, and then I mentioned Dr. Sweets, and then he hugged me and we both left."

The other woman shook her head. "Oh, Bren—did you tell Booth he sounded like Sweets?"

"Is that bad?"

"Honey…he doesn't want to be your shrink, he wants to be your _boyfriend_—"

"'Boyfriend' is such a juvenile term—"

Angela's voice raised again. "OK, lover, partner, sex god, whatever! The point is, he wants to move this forward…do you?"

Now Brennan felt herself blush. "Yes, I do."

Just then, the door opened and Booth stuck his head in. "Morning, ladies. Angela, you're as glowing as ever—"

"Oh, save it for when I'm a sweaty mess after delivery." She heaved herself up and smiled back at Brennan. "Now's your chance, honey!"

"Your chance to what?" Booth asked, with a slightly dubious glance at Angela's retreating form.

Brennan held his eyes for a long moment, thinking about how she'd felt when she learned he'd gotten Broadsky. She'd spent a lot of years ignoring Angela's advice when it came to Booth…perhaps now it was time to listen.

Pushing back from her desk, she headed out of her office. "Come with me," she told Booth.

"Where are we going?" She could hear his footsteps hurrying behind her as she strode across the forensics platform. "Hey—this isn't one of Angie's new-agey schemes, is it? We're not going to honor Vincent's spirit with crystals and incense or anything?"

"No."

Around the corner from the Ookey Room, she turned into a short hallway, dim by comparison to the clinically-bright lab, in which hulks of shrouded equipment marched up to a bright red emergency-exit door.

"Bones! Don't go through there—you'll set off the—"

But she had stopped just short of the door and turned around. Grabbing his lapels, she kissed him, hard.

She felt his surprise as he backpedaled, just for a millisecond. Then he was pressing his body against hers, one hand slipping underneath her jacket in a caress that made her gasp.

"So—" she breathed, some time later. "Angela said I should…communicate to you…that I was ready to take the next step."

"I love Angela." His lips found the curve of her jaw, and Brennan reluctantly remembered where they were.

"Maybe we should…go somewhere…"

"Yeah," Booth said, into her neck. Then: "Wait—you mean _now_?"

"Don't you want to?"

"_Yes_, I want to! You have no idea how much I want to!"

"Well, I do have _some_ idea." She grinned saucily, one finger trailing down his shirt buttons. "We are standing very close together."

Booth groaned, trapping the exploratory finger against his chest. "Holy Christ." He breathed in through his nose sharply; Brennan thought he might be counting.

"I don't normally condone playing hockey at work, but…" She kissed him, slowly, savoring the growl that came up from the back of his throat. "…maybe in this case I should make an exception."

"It's _hooky_, Bones—playing hooky _from_ work." Smoothing her jacket, he tucked one wayward tail of her blouse back in. "And as good as that sounds, we are _not_ gonna grab a nooner at some hotel—"

"What's a nooner?"

"It's—not important right now!" Booth put his hands on her shoulders and took a deliberate step back. "Now, listen, Bones. We've waited a long time for this…and we're going to do it _right_."

"Which means?"

"Which means…I'll pick you up at 7:30. Wear something…nice." Kissing her gently, he turned and walked quickly back down the hallway.

"Where are you going now?" she called after him.

"To take a _very_ cold shower."

**TO BE CONTINUED**

So the next chapter is going to be pretty important...might take me awhile. Hope you'll bear with me! :)


	6. The Heart of the Matter

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay on this one, folks…dontcha hate it when real life gets in the way of fanfiction? :) Anyway, hope you like…

**Added 6/20/11:** I haven't forgotten about this story-not by a long shot-but it might be another week or two (or, let's face it, three) before I can update again. Just wanted to let you all know...and thanks again for the reviews, favorites, and alerts. They make my day-every single one of them!

**Chapter Six: The Heart of the Matter**

It started off just fine.

Bones had, as instructed, put on something nice for the occasion. So nice, in fact, that Booth had trouble concentrating on the short drive to the restaurant.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked.

He suddenly became aware that he had, apparently, made multiple turns and parallel-parked the car, all the while trying to figure out just what mechanism was fastening Bones' snug red wrap dress in place. So he could get it off as quickly as possible, later.

The human mind was a great multitasker.

"Wait here," he said. Coming around the SUV, he opened her door and stretched out a hand for her to take.

She looked at him, amused. "Booth, I've been getting out of the car by myself for years. I think I can manage." So saying, she swept gracefully by him, not even wobbling on her spiky black shoes.

He took her elbow as they walked up the pathway. "Hey, Bones, just work with me here, alright?"

"I'm sorry. You're making these gestures to symbolically indicate a shift in the status of our relationship."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. It's rather sweet, actually."

"No…I'm just finally getting to do all the stuff I've wanted to do for a long time."

"Like what?" she asked, as they climbed the brownstone's concrete steps.

He swung the black door wide, gesturing for her to go ahead. "Like treat you like a lady."

Bones stopped in the vestibule, her face serious. "Booth, treating me like a lady means listening to me, valuing my opinion, being respectful. And you've always done that."

His eyes stung a little, and he nearly blurted out, _God, I love you_...but he had a feeling he'd better tread carefully on the declaration front. He settled for a smile, ushering her into the warm, mahogany-accented restaurant.

The maitre-d' led them to a table fronted by a huge picture window. The sun spread its last rays over the Potomac, slipping through the arches of Key Bridge and gilding the top of the Washington Monument.

He was savoring some very fine single-malt when the executive chef appeared, beaming, if slightly rumpled, in his white coat and black-checked pants. "Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth—it _is_ a singular pleasure."

Bones jumped up and hugged him. "Gordon! I didn't know this was your place. Booth, did you? Oh-I guess you did." She subsided into her chair, answering his grin with a deliciously conscious little smile.

"I gather that tonight is something of...an _occasion_," Gordon twinkled. "Not to worry—I shall do my best to make sure that the _culinary_ portion of your evening is an unqualified success." Throwing a loaded look Booth's way, he bowed and headed back through the swinging door.

True to his word, Gordon sent out plate after plate of mouthwatering little bites. The talk flowed easily while they tasted, laughed, and tasted again. At one point, Booth simply sat back and enjoyed watching Bones shed her workaday intensity: her eyes lightened, her smile widened, the planes of her beautiful face softened in the dusky light.

His filet mignon and her...vegetable something...were nearly gone when they had another visitor.

"Why, Seeley Booth! What a surprise!"

Booth looked up and groaned silently. Of all the people to run into on their first date, it had to be one with a nose for gossip , a viper's tongue, and a willingness to deploy them both, no matter the carnage that ensued. He plastered on a smile. "Margaux! I didn't realize you were back in D.C.!"

"Ah'm here on special assignment," she drawled, her glance sliding pointedly to Bones.

"That's...great! Oh—Agent Margaux Renard, Dr. Temperance Brennan." To Bones, he said, "Agent Renard is based out of the Charlotte office, but she's been loaned out to corporate a few times. We were at Quantico together."

"Dr. Brennan!" Margaux exclaimed. "You must be Seeley's bone lady! I hear you're just _brilliant_." He doubted Bones would notice the condescension that dripped from her words...but it came through loud and clear to him.

"You heard correctly!" Bones flashed the slightly overeager smile she sometimes gave when she was trying to navigate a sticky social situation. "So, Agent Renard, vous devez parler francais, bien sur...comment aimez-vous le FBI?"

"Sorry, honey, I didn't catch that."

"I just assumed, from your name, that you would speak French. Also, it's fairly common, I thought, for agents to be bilingual. Isn't that right, Booth?"

Margaux's brown eyes narrowed nastily, and Booth scrambled for a topic at once neutral and dismissive. He'd seen that look before—usually in the interrogation room, right before she pulled the rug out from under an unsuspecting perp.

Unfortunately, Margaux beat him to it. "Seeley, how is that _lovely_ Hannah? The last time I was up here—it was the Bureau Christmas party, wasn't it? You two were so cute, under that mistletoe..." Her laugh tinkled like broken glass.

"Hannah's gone!" he growled. _Don't give her more ammunition_. He forced his voice into a normal register. "She took an extended assignment..."

"...in Yemen," Bones finished. He could've kissed her. Probably he should.

"Well, now, that's just _too_ bad. Oh—looks like my sugar's gettin' impatient." She waved across the room, then said in rampantly insincere tones, "_So_ nice meetin' you, Dr. Brennan."

And she was finally gone. He turned his attention back to Bones, who was picking at her Tower of Vitamins, or whatever it was called. She put her fork down and took a deliberate sip of her wine.

"Am I...am I the consolation prize?"

He choked on a lump of filet. "What? No! _No_, of course not. Bones—you—"

"Then you lied to me," she interrupted softly, eyes on her plate.

"Bones, look at me." Reluctantly, her gaze met his; he hoped that some small portion of those feelings he wasn't ready to name were showing in his eyes. "You are _not_ a consolation prize. You're the One, Bones—I told you that, a year and a half ago."

"But last December, you told me Hannah wasn't a consolation prize. If you meant it—" She shook her head, rolling the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. "Two opposing facts can't both be true, Booth."

Frustration boiled up inside him. Goddamn Margaux! Tonight was supposed to be perfect—_had_ been perfect—until she derailed them with her evil innuendo. He slapped a hand down on the table. "You know what? Can we just...take a minute, here? I need to—" He gestured toward the restrooms.

There was bound to be a back door to the parking lot. Maybe letting the air out of Godzilla's tires would calm him down. Her car was easy to spot; he knew she always rented a red Mustang.

Turned out he only had time for one tire before a busboy came out on the back stoop, cigarette in hand. Still, it helped. He came back to the table, whistling.

She wasn't there. She must've gone to the Ladies'. He was just sitting down when a flash of red caught his eye through the window: Bones, striding purposefully down the darkening street.

He was out the door and down the steps almost before he could take another breath. "Bones! BONES!" Catching up to her, he panted, "What the—where are you going?"

She shrugged and turned to the right, stopping at the low wall that edged the river. It was a clear, calm evening; all the Harbour lights shimmered silently in the water. "I'm not hungry anymore."

Silence fell heavily between them while Booth struggled to find the words to explain. He'd hoped, somehow, that their indirect conversations about anger and strength and imperviousness would be enough to exorcise Hannah's ghost. That burning a random date on a piece of paper burned away the evidence: only three months ago, he'd chosen someone else.

Bones deserved better than that. A _lot_ better.

Her fists were clenched, there on the stone wall. He owed it to her to try, anyway. "I like to think I'm an honorable man, y'know? I wanted to believe that I wasn't just...trying to replace you. I wanted to think I'd moved on—a new era! A new me! But the truth is—" He shook his head.

"The truth is, what?"

"The truth is, that when you told me you didn't want to have any regrets...I almost drove off the road, Bones—off the road and into the nearest hotel I could find, and damn the consequences."

"But you didn't. Because you're an honorable man." She said it as a statement, a _fact_, totally without irony or sarcasm. How the hell had he earned such loyalty? "What would you have done if she said yes?"

"I would've probably made the biggest mistake of my screwed-up life," he said vehemently. "God, Bones—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what I put you through."

She studied his face for a long moment; he wondered what anthropological precedents she was trying to apply to their situation. Or maybe she was just weighing which martial arts move would most efficiently leave him on his ass.

But here, as so often, she surprised him. "I suppose if I hadn't been afraid to try, last year, none of this would have—"

He cut her off. "No, Bones—this one's all on me."

The night had grown cool; she tightened the shawl around her shoulders. "There's something I don't understand."

"What?" If she would forgive him, he would explain anything—would crack himself open like a book for her to read, examine, dissect—

"Why were you so angry with her?"

Rubbing a hand over his jaw, he considered this. "I guess I wasn't...I mean, I _was_, at first, until I realized that she'd saved us both. Then I was angry with myself—and Fate, or destiny, or whatever."

She made an impatient little gesture. "I don't believe in Fate."

"I know you don't." He couldn't help himself; he had to risk it, risk putting his arms around her and drawing her close. "_I_ believe...I believe enough for both of us. You'll see, Bones—thirty years from now, we'll be sitting in matching rocking chairs on some old porch, while you tell our grandkids all about the Malongi tribe from East Wherever." He kissed her temple, her cheek, her—

She shoved him away. Hard.

"You can't know that! You can't promise me we'll be together forever!"

"Bones, come on—we've been through this!" His penitence was giving way to exasperation; they couldn't keep combing over the same ground.

"No, Booth! If this is going to work between us, you're going to have to accept that it might not be perfect...it might not last!"

"And _you're_ going to have to accept that it _might_!"

Cupping her face in his hands, he wiped away the tears that coursed down her cheeks and rested his forehead against hers, whispering, "You're right. There's no guarantee, no magic fairy dust that can give us forever. But _I love you_, Bones—every damn inch of you, inside and out. I love that your IQ is double mine. I love the way you mess up your clichés. I love the look you get when you've figured something out, and when you smile at me, my stomach flips over—Every. Time. For six _years_, Bones! I love you, and I want to _keep_ loving you for a long, long time." He kissed her, just once, very softly. "Is that OK with you?"

Her fingers traced the path of his own tears, and she nodded. Then her mouth was on his, and they were clinging together, breathless, as the river slid quietly by beneath them.

"Car?" he gasped.

"Yes."

They ran across the street, hands linked. As he shut Bones' door, Booth paused a moment to offer a wink and a wave to the star-dotted sky.

It never hurt to hedge your bets.

-0-0-0-

Behind them, Gordon Wyatt stood in the picture window, a plate of molten chocolate cake in his hands. The sparkler candle he'd stuck in the top sputtered, and he ran one finger through a thickening puddle of raspberry coulis. Too bad—he'd really outdone himself on this one.

Shrugging his shoulders, he smiled and went back to the kitchen.

It was only dessert, after all.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**This one's for lizzie...thanks for the inspiration. ;)**


End file.
